The Dead are Watching Read online

  More information started coming to me. Someone named Karen was coming through now too.

  “Karen was a favorite aunt who recently passed away,” one of the investigators confirmed.

  As I walked slowly around through the two rooms upstairs, I passed a spot at the far end near the doorway and sensed a strong negative force.

  “Oh, something right here is very strong, very negative energy,” I told them as I stood beside it. Brian decided to go downstairs and ask what had occurred at that spot. I waited, trying to make sense of the feelings coming from this innocent-looking empty space. There was only the open hardwood floor. Brian trotted back up the steps a few moments later with the owner and solved the mystery.

  “That spot is where my sisters had one of their twin beds when we were growing up. They sat right there and played with a Ouija board,” the owner said. Brian and I just looked at each other, and the owner returned downstairs to wait. Who knows what portal could’ve been opened. The residual vibe, at the very least, was still there. It takes knowledge of protection methods to safely use a Ouija board.

  We descended to the first floor and did a walk-through of the bedrooms, and I experienced a sense of something that stood and watched the owner sleep. This was a creepy sort of shadow-man in my mind’s eye. Then we walked into the basement. Here there was a sense of someone battling alcoholism. I also felt a grandfather’s presence in several of the items on the walls, and this was confirmed.

  I was relieved that so much came through for this family, but there was obviously something still unaccounted for. The terrible fear continuing to grip me came from that big house on the hill, less than fifty yards away. It was a fear I didn’t yet understand. I knew it must be the missing puzzle piece, and I hoped it would be solved. This was the very reason I had finally embraced psychic abilities—to help others. I hoped I might be the one to solve it. But as soon as I heard the owner’s story, everything became crystal clear.

  We finished downstairs, returned one last time to the upper floor for a final look, and then met with the family members who’d been waiting quietly in the kitchen. My investigator friend Brian left the digital voice recorder running as we talked with them, as he often does. His theory that a spirit will often join in conversations among others has proven true in the past. Brian explained what we had found so far in their house.

  “Debra has come up with some accurate things, such as names you gave me in advance. There is also some information that still needs to be discovered. You guys may be able to tell us what some of Debra’s psychic information means.” We spoke with the family members for a few more minutes. I explained to them how sometimes using a Ouija will open things up in a home, paranormally speaking. I finished by saying that using a Ouija unprotected “is not a good idea, usually.” I told the owners what I’d sensed upstairs and the names I’d been given clairaudiently. And then the family began to tell us about the site’s history.

  An Indian massacre resulting in the deaths of many settlers long ago had taken place near the left side of the little house. A church and parsonage had also stood on that spot a century after the massacre. None of this resonated very strongly with me, however, although the massacre may have been some of what I’d been feeling about hiding and chaos. Then the family began to tell us another story, and as soon as they did, it finally began to make sense.

  “We found out something bizarre when we were kids,” said the older daughter. She looked toward the big house on the hill, motioning toward it. “Long ago, an older couple lived up there. And the wife’s brother lived in the little brown house on the other side of it.” Her younger sister joined in. “The brother wasn’t quite right, from what we heard. There was just something sort of off about him.” Her elder sister agreed and proceeded to explain that the old couple and the woman’s brother lived up there during their grandparents’ generation. When their parents bought the house, the old couple was long dead, and one of their sons had inherited the big house. He was about the same age as their parents, and they all played with this man’s kids, who were the grandkids of the original old couple.

  One summer day, their family and the neighbors were all out back in their adjoining yards. Their neighbors on the hill had begun tearing down their old outhouse in the backyard, between their two yards. The eldest sister took up the story again.

  “Our mom and dad were helping them. The men were smashing up the outhouse, and then digging out all the muck underneath. It was a dirty job. We were kids of course, not paying much attention, only half listening and running around the yard. But suddenly, we heard all the commotion stop over there.”

  Obviously, something had drawn the kids’ attention to make them stop and go look. The kids went closer and stood there, staring. Everyone was frozen in place. One of their dads had pulled out a very long bone—obviously a human leg bone, a femur. The adults had all stared at each other, and then their mothers shooed the kids away. The sister paused for a moment, remembering, and told me they’d found out more the next day from their friends who lived next door—their parents broke down and told them the truth. The sister thought maybe their parents hadn’t really believed the story themselves when their parents told them—at least not until they found the leg bone that day.

  The neighbor’s mother told her kids that one night, her uncle, the strange man who’d lived in the little brown house beside the big house when her parents lived there, brought a woman home. And for whatever reason, he killed her there. Their childhood friends didn’t know if their grandma had found the woman or what had happened. But instead of calling the cops when they found this dead woman, the old couple stuffed the woman’s body down the outhouse. And then they locked the grandma’s crazy brother in the little brown house. They fed him through a hole in the door. And there the crazy brother stayed, imprisoned, until he died. As the current owner finished telling us investigators the story, all of us adult team members gathered in their kitchen stared at each other in shocked silence.

  My mind was racing with the thoughts of what I’d felt and sensed. So, the spirit of that poor murdered woman, the spirit of the crazy locked-up brother, and the spirits of that old couple, burdened by their terrible secret—they’re probably all still here … And someone’s daughter, someone’s mother or wife, went missing long ago, and no one ever knew what happened to her. It was her I was feeling—her terror. For all anyone knew, the murdered woman might’ve broken away from the strange man and tried to hide, then was found by him and finished off. Maybe that was the running, hiding, watching, sensation I kept getting.

  The one thing I do know for sure, that woman is still there, and she is still terrified. I could feel her.

  Later, I checked around, carefully and anonymously, just trying to see if there were any outstanding missing persons from that area from years ago, but that search has been inconclusive so far. I know the murdered woman wants to be remembered, to be acknowledged. I can feel her trying to gently remind me to tell her story. So far, I haven’t found the answers, or a way to help her. But I’m still looking. I wish I could’ve gotten into the big house on the hill or the little brown house beside it. I’d have liked to stand inside, maybe get a better glimpse of which spirit was still there. I believe the evil brother is definitely there, and I also sense the murdered woman is too. I don’t think she can rest until she has some sort of justice.

  Our investigation wrapped things up there at the haunted house, and we thanked the owners, telling them we would follow up with whatever evidence we’d recorded.

  After the investigation I was exhausted, just completely wrung out, as I often am when I use psychic abilities. It wears me out in a way that’s a combination of mental and physical—maybe because I have to open myself completely and strain to hear and feel what’s not obvious in a normal mind state. I guess it’s a psychical strain. It’s the reason I’ve never liked to take on events that require lots of reading
s in a row. Sometimes it causes a severe headache afterward. And I felt the stirrings of a bad one.

  It was still raining as I backed out of the driveway of the haunted house. I sighed as I dug one-handed for the Aleve in my purse on the passenger seat and swallowed one down with my bottle of water. That night I planned a quiet evening at home with a cup of my favorite chai tea. I hoped to lose myself in a good book too. I didn’t want to think about the investigation or psychic things at all; I’d had enough for one day.

  As I drove home in the rain, my thoughts drifted to my son, James, as they invariably do. The story of the little boy Christian, who was so scared living at his haunted house, brought back the memories of James at that same age, dealing with our own home’s spirits. I remembered how scared James had been the night he came running to me, telling me he’d seen people standing around a coffin in our foyer. It was too much for a little boy to grasp; a scene from the distant past playing out before him. Then my thoughts came full circle again; James being gone still seemed impossible and unreal, and the idea that he could come back as a spirit no less so.

  My investigator friend Brian called me the next day with confirmations and a few EVPs. EVP is short for electronic voice phenomena, voices captured from the spirit world that are outside the range of human ears, but picked up on digital voice recorders. The sister of the man who lived at the haunted house, Lyn, had been very ill with pain where I’d felt it. Her father Randall had also died of cancer there. That day, I think he’d been showing me their pain, which had just about doubled me over. But I was left with a deep sense of unease at the EVPs the digital recorders caught. While I was downstairs talking with the family, explaining what I’d felt upstairs and confirming the names I’d received, I also mentioned their Ouija usage.

  As I listened to the playback of me explaining to the family that “it’s not a good idea to play with a Ouija, usually,” you can hear what sounds like a pig grunting, just as I say “usually.” Brian then played an enhanced and cleaned-up version of it. My blood ran cold as I heard a deep male voice saying “usually” right along with me—almost mocking me—except both voices sound as though they were coming from me. There was literally no delay—the “usually” was said right in time with me. I sounded like something

  out of The Exorcist! This frightened me, and my mind began to dart around for rational explanations. How could something so accurately anticipate what I was going to say? Enough so as to say it at exactly the same time that I did? Is this “something” what has followed me for so long? Was it beside me or inside me? And now the final question was raised in my mind. Could whatever this thing is be the cause of my lifetime of “extraordinary gifts?”

  This scared me badly enough to try a technique I’d heard about. That night, I stood in front of the mirror to exorcise myself. Okay, what’s next? Because now you’re just a few cats short of being a crazy cat lady. I stared into my own eyes. I prayed, asking in God’s name for anything evil to be cast out. I did this passionately, renouncing any hold the demonic might have over me. I know how crazy it sounds, but hearing that creepy evil voice seemingly coming out of my own mouth was a bit too much to take. Then I went to bed, and as I lay there in the dark, I closed my eyes and, asking to see something, began waiting for the pictures that usually come when I do readings, pictures that foretell the future or the health conditions of whoever I’m doing a reading for. Nothing. I tried again with the same result. Now I was worried. Maybe this psychic ability I’d thought was prophecy, a spiritual gift, was caused by evil and I’d just cast it out! I walked back into the bathroom and stared at myself again in the mirror. I searched my own face, my hairline, then came back to my eyes, and shook my head at the ridiculousness of it all. Crazy cat lady!

  By the next day, I could see the clairvoyant pictures formed by the light again—so I knew it was just my own neurotic fears that had scared it out of me temporarily. In the rational light of day, I thought more about the voice on the EVP and realized it probably wasn’t coming from me but rather was something matching me very closely as I spoke. Still, it was unnerving, and it hit a bit too close to home, playing upon my lifelong fears. It also made me more determined than ever to research whatever strange entity or slip of the digital recorder could cause such a thing. I was still dealing with the deaths of my father and my son, and their returns. Somehow, the trigger moment of hearing that eerie voice coming out of me set me on a new mission to somehow understand it all.

  I thought I’d already discovered everything I possibly could during my life-changing journey after the deaths of my son and my father. But maybe there was still more to know. I was determined to find out once and for all.

  I decided to put the word out, and I began to call all the friends who’d told me their strange stories about their loved ones’ returns after death. The more I thought about my son James’s returns, the more I wanted to compare my experiences with others to find any possible connections. I had also experienced a wealth of evidence on paranormal investigations and so had my investigator friends. Whether it was a loved one’s return or a more random ghostly occurrence, I felt that if I could only hear enough stories, maybe I could piece together some universal truth. Maybe some sort of epiphany, some light bulb moment would strike and help me understand my own situation. But deep down I also recognized that I might not ever want to stop chasing this elusive understanding until I truly knew something for sure. Because of this, I didn’t know if I could ever stop.

  I began collecting ghost stories from my friends, family, and paranormal investigators, sorting them into various categories, such as intelligent hauntings; the returns of loved ones or spirits who tried to communicate; residual hauntings, those that recurred over and over like a tape loop; and, finally, unspecified hauntings. Some of those might be poltergeist-like in nature, or even demonic, depending on how I labeled the intent behind them.

  I went about my daily life as I gathered these stories, fitting people’s interviews between my music performances, investigations, and writing. And I found stories everywhere, some very close to home.

  [contents]

  2

  Beyond the Veil

  Many of my numerous haunted experiences are detailed in my first book. Some of the crazy things I’d witnessed since moving in to a haunted house as a teen made me reevaluate what I’d been taught. I realized there was much more out there in the world than we were being told, and that’s when I first vowed to understand it.

  Spirits tried desperately to get my attention in that first haunted house. They scratched on my sheets while I lay in bed. They touched me, locked me in the bathroom, even dumped a visiting adult male out of a heavy upholstered chair! I didn’t know then that I could set some ground rules—I was so terrified, I could barely acknowledge that there were spirits, let alone speak out loud to them!

  This began my life focused on the paranormal. In my spare time, music filled any other void, eventually becoming my full-time job. Finally, my understanding of this first haunting came full circle when I found the 1940 census for the haunted house on Fifth Street. My great-grandmother’s son lived in the house then. He would’ve been my grandpa’s first cousin. Suddenly it seemed as though family spirits might have been trying to contact me. But I certainly didn’t understand this at that young age. And it nearly traumatized me for life.

  The old red-brick buildings glowed with the warmth of the setting sun as I unloaded my guitar and equipment in Roscoe Village. The beautiful little canal town, restored to early 1800s glory, hosted two of my regular playing venues. I’ve been a professional musician almost as long as I’ve been a psychic—and I was born psychic. Uncorked, the wine bar where I was performing that night, had been many things during its century-and-a-half existence, even a morgue. Its newest owners were Joe and Lorrie, who had been my friends for years, ever since they’d hired me to play music at their previous business.

  I’d occasionally used
Uncorked’s back party room to do psychic readings for clients in town. I’d just given readings to a group there a few days before. As I carried my guitar in, I passed a table with a man and two women. They stopped me.

  “Hey,” the man said. “I’m sorry I had to cancel my reading appointment at the last minute.” I smiled at all three of the friends as I switched to psychic mode temporarily, remembering that someone a few days before had canceled.

  I told him it was okay, that it happened sometimes. Suddenly a name was whispered in my head. Kenny. “Who’s Kenny?” I asked him. Both girls’ sharp intake of breath told me I’d hit upon something.

  “Oh my God, we were just talking about him! Not two minutes before you came in,” cried one girl. She explained that she’d been telling the man with her about Kenny, a mutual acquaintance of theirs, who’d been giving her a hard time recently. She’d wanted his advice.

  I told them how sometimes I just picked things up like that. The man, still looking slightly startled, told me he’d reschedule very soon. I smiled, and promptly switched back to music mode. I was getting pretty used to doing this by now. It happened a lot.

  Most of the time, Joe, the co-owner of Uncorked and a fellow musician, joined me onstage when I played there. After our second set, we sat at a large table talking with friends, and the subject of hauntings came up. Joe had previously told a few stories about some unexplainable events in the building. Several times, I even thought I’d felt something myself while in the restrooms. That night, since it was a little slower than usual due to a storm, I asked Joe if he’d take me into the basement—the former morgue—to see what I could sense. I’ve always noticed that rain seems to be more conducive to spirits. Perhaps because water is a very efficient conductor of electrical energy, and most believe spirit energy is electrical in nature.